


Couldn't You Feel It?

by 112ance



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: ??? - Freeform, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Gay Keith (Voltron), Happy Pride, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Lance (Voltron) Sings, Lance (Voltron) is Angsty, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, Langst, M/M, Mentions of Keith/Rolo, Mentions of Rolo - Freeform, Minor Keith/Rolo (Voltron), One-sided pining for Lance, Singer!Lance (Voltron), i made one of my dreams come true with this, once again I am bad at tags, pride month 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:20:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24569149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/112ance/pseuds/112ance
Summary: Keith is going on his sixth date, having trouble with dressing himself up. Luckily for him, his best bud comes in at the right time.Rather unluckily for said best bud that he is a hopeless romantic who helplessly bottles up his feelings.
Relationships: Keith & Lance (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron), Keith/Rolo (Voltron)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 78
Collections: Just some pretty nice fics





	Couldn't You Feel It?

It’s one hell of a breezy afternoon—but Keith couldn’t care less.  


He meekly ruffles his hair, deciding between throwing it all on one side, letting it completely loose, maybe gelling it to domesticate his flyaways, tying it up into a ponytail, or just shaving his head because it is such a mess that it’s a pain to style it every single time he has a special occasion. It’s like a bird can nest in it, lay its eggs and wait for its babies to hatch.  


He had to look his best. Today’s a date with his boyfriend, after all. It’s their sixth one yet.  


He’ll keep the mullet, though. It’s kind of a trademark that he wears on his shoulders now, and he thinks it’ll look weird if he chops it off. He runs his frustrations through the hurricane he blames for the chaos wreaking his hair with his fingers, a groan forcing itself out of his gritted teeth. He sighs heavily.  


It’s not just his hair he’s worried about, it’s also his outfit. God forbid Keith have a reasonable fashion sense. He can’t help it, likes being comfy. And being comfy for him means wearing the same black shirt and black pants for almost everything. He’s too embarrassed to admit it, but he sleeps in that stuff sometimes. Passes out from an exhausting day of doing _absolutely everything_ in that attire, and if he is going to shower, he’d have a spare of the same fashion to throw on: black pajamas, or everyday clothes? Not that important, really. At some point, he considers it his uniform. Almost no room for such a thing like _style_ , because if there is, this _is_ his style. Kind of like when someone has a color palette, Keith’s would consist of mostly black, white, and red. Honestly, it makes Keith baffle at the thought that that should even matter.  


But after getting a yes for an answer from this guy he’s been caught staring at multiple times, ranted to Shiro about, stalked him on his social media account (he never does that for _anyone_ ), had planned some of their dates—goodness, there is no way he’d look— _average_. He wants to look presentable, at least.  


The clothes next to his open drawer pile up by the second as he tosses a white button up long-sleeved shirt that makes him look like a business manager instead of a guy trying to be classy and snug without trying too hard. This whole slew is really not his thing, but he reminds himself that _this is a date. I need to look better than_ okay. He rummages through his neat pile of tops folded accordingly on his bed. He heaves another heavy sigh as he turns his body side to side, keeping his eyes glued to his reflection. _One outfit gets picked, right? Done. I get dressed, and then this whole thing’s over. It doesn’t have to be complicated!_  


Frustration and impatience work their way up into every fiber of his being, causing him to pinch the bridge of his nose to have some sort of ground control. He coaxes himself into a steady pace of breaths, each going _in through the nose, out through the mouth_. And then another sigh leaves his mouth apathetically.  


Keith is not amused. Not one bit.  


Right as he is about to storm out and snatch the electric razor his brother Shiro stashed away in his bathroom cupboard, he’s alerted by a careful knock on the door. Judging by the pace of the knocks, the one asking to be invited in seems to be hesitant of doing so. He dusts off his black shirt that’s worn from constant wash and wear, adjusting his hair to the side as his last resort for the wild beast he can’t seem to tame atop his head, he bites his lip as he approaches the door. To his surprise, it is unlocked and it’s not Shiro standing by the hallway to check up on him.  


“Hey, man,” Lance says, meeting his gaze with Keith’s. “You okay in here?” He peeks his head in through the gap between Keith’s shoulder and a view of his room. He spots the pieces of clothing littering the floor, along with the heap of worn ones beside his drawer. “No way, how long have you been picking an outfit?”  


“Too long,” Keith admits, putting both hands on his hips and shifting his weight to his right leg.  


“And your hair is a mess.”  


“Glad you noticed.”  


“Uh huh,” Lance deadpans. “What, it’s like,” he flicks his wrist and angles his watch to check the time. “4 PM? You’ve been at this for _three hours_?”  


Keith freezes at the realization as his eyes widen like they are going to pop out of his eye sockets. “Three h—what the _fuck_?”  


He scrambles around like a headless chicken, stepping on and over half of his wardrobe in disarray. He fumbles about to seize his phone on his work desk, desperate to check it out for himself. It is, indeed, 4 PM, and exactly at that. He feels his heart sink to the pit of his stomach.  


The date is scheduled around 5 PM. It takes about 20 minutes to get to the location he and his date arranged, a cozy retreat to the smell of coffee, caramel, tea, and icing lingering in the café they agreed to. It’s called _Lion-Nest_. Pretty clever for a name, but Keith is gonna be _pretty toast _when he gets there late. And underdressed. Not to mention— _unprepared_.  
__

____

He curses underneath his breath, muttering shit, shit, shit continuously. He claws at his hair, nicking at the thought that he hasn’t made any progress at all in the past few hours, and he had no backup plans, nor does he even have _any_ plans. He is going to be late, apologizing profusely, looking all sloppy and dressed like a complete _idiot_ —  


____

“Keith,” Lance’s voice cut through his anxious trance like a dagger, the weight of compassionate hands upon his shoulders. “Keith, _breathe_ , man. You look like you’re gonna explode and plot the most horrible way to torture your chair. _Relax_.”  


____

Keith, not realizing he’s breathing—no, _gasping_ for air— and in fact, comes to the realization that he’s probably glaring at his swivel chair like a deranged fellow, takes an interest at his feet with his devastated room’s clutter clouded in his peripheral vision. He complies with Lance’s advice, working to put his breathing to a medium, his friend guiding him.  


____

“Okay,” Lance says.  


____

“Okay,” Keith follows.  


____

“Let’s—let’s focus on your breathing first, okay? And then we can worry about your outfit a bit later. Sound good?”  


____

Keith nods. He lets his eyes fall shut, gradually drifting his focus from all of the issues weighing him down to one task at a time. Doing it all would only overwhelm him, and so he tries to reduce it to just— _whelmed_. _Patience yields focus_ , his father used to tell him. Shiro’s now the one who tells him that. After his dad…  


____

Well, what matters is that he had his head screwed on now. Pick an outfit, do his hair, pamper himself inside and out. He can do this.  


____

Problem is, he has no idea where to start, or even do. He _cannot_ do this.  


____

“Tell you what, let me help you,” Lance offers.  


____

Keith can feel his heart rise back to his chest where it belongs. “You’ll… you’ll what?”  


____

“Uh,” Lance releases a chuckle, “Help you…? With your… hair and outfit?”  


____

Lance can somehow see Keith’s eyes fill with starlight (sunlight? He isn’t sure, but maybe sunlight since it’s afternoon, but Keith’s eyes look like starlight because of how purple and _majestic_ they are. _He is confusion_ ). He clears his throat to try to clear his thoughts unsuited for the situation, and about _Keith_ , of all people. Keith, and his pretty violet eyes, Lance swears he can drown in them, goodness—  


____

That’s for later. For now, he had to lend a helping hand to his best friend. Or ex-rival. Or—  


____

“ _So_ ,” Lance stresses on the syllable, eager to shut the unnecessary thoughts out. “You ready?”  


____

Keith responds with a slow nod again, lips pursed together tightly. Right. The more they stall, the more time they waste.  


____

“Okay,” Lance says, inspecting his face and hovering his eyes on Keith’s outfit, which he can only describe as typical, boring, plain, maybe even tasteless, but so totally screams _Keith_. The note he whistles goes down a few notes. “We gotta start with your outfit, because there’s no way I’m letting you go out like that. You look…” His lips scrunch to one corner as he raises an eyebrow. “…urban.”  


____

Keith sighs through his nose. “Wasn’t planning to. And thanks for that, I guess.”  


____

Lance waves a hand dismissively, a toothless grin stretching his lips. “No problem, man.” He fists the spot above Keith’s armpit, in between his shoulder and collarbone. “Now, let’s get _crackin’_ ,” he puns he as cracks his knuckles and turns to the small hill of clothes in the corner of the room. Keith rolls his eyes.  


____

“Let’s see...” He taps his bottom lip thoughtfully, inspecting the problem with Keith’s outfit by eyeing the pile of clothes and what Keith is currently wearing. After a few moments of thoughtful consideration, he shakes his head. “Maybe you’ve been approaching all this wrong.”  


____

Keith elevates both his thick eyebrows. “What do you mean?”  


____

“You see,” Lance whips around to face him. “I think you just need to put something on top of that shirt.”  


____

“ _Lance_.”  


____

“What?”  


____

“This is a date. I’m _supposed to look good_.”  


____

Lance shrugs. “Dude, you’ve been dating for like, what, how many months now? If ‘looking good’ for you makes you this stressed out,” he extends his arms sideways, gesturing to the typhoon named Stressed Keith that emplaced his room in utter shambles, “then I don’t think you’re doing this correctly. What do you want him to see? You, or a fabricated version of you?”  


____

Keith’s lip quivers. “I…”  


____

“I have no clue how many dates you guys have been to—” _Wrong_. Of course he does, it’s their sixth date. _And_ they’ve been dating for four months. How does he know? His obsession with Keith might just answer that. “—and your outfit choices haven’t been, like, a big problem.”  


____

Keith crosses his arms over his chest, cocking his hip to one side. “Just—it’s only for today.”  


____

Lance heaves a sigh. “Just dress like how you normally do, you’ll be—”  


____

“No, no way,” Keith frantically shakes his head, flicking his arms to get his disagreement across.  


____

“Why? What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?”  


____

“Look, there _has_ to be something else that could work—"  


____

“Come on, Keith, what’s the prob—”  


____

“I’m _scared_.”  


____

Silence stuns them both.  


____

Lance swallows the lump rising in his throat, before reaching to him carefully. “What do you mean?”  


____

Keith wraps his arms around himself to contain feelings he’s not used to muster. “Look, I know we’ve been dating for quite a while now, but—it’s just… I don’t wanna fuck this up. I only got one shot at this, Lance, and I—I don’t wanna scare him off. I just—I wanna be… good enough for him.”  


____

The tiny but obnoxious voice inside Lance screams, _What the fuck do you mean? You’re good enough. You’re not gonna scare him off. You’re not gonna fuck this up—you’re_ Keith, _for crying out loud. Such a razzling, dazzling man with that stupid mullet and stunning fucking eyes. You’re good enough for me._  


____

A pang of sadness and shame shoots an arrow through his heart. He can hear the voice inside his head scoff.  


____

_Good enough for me, but the universe had other plans._  


____

_You’re not mine. _  
__

______ _ _

Heaviness of an unspeakable amount of unreturned feelings sinks his heart, the load threatening to shatter it. With a push to pull on through, he gives him his most genuinely friendly smile, silently cursing at himself if his eyes give his true feelings away.  


______ _ _

“Keith,” he starts cautiously. “He said yes to you for a reason, right? If this guy isn’t a dick, he said that because he likes you back. Thinking like this will only feed your mind with thoughts that aren’t supposed to be there. You will only fuck it up if you think you will. So, don’t think about it too much.  


______ _ _

“This is a date, right? So, show him the side of you you’re comfortable sharing, but make sure it’s not based off a lie. If this guy’s the one, you’ll see it. I know you will. That’s what dates are for; to know what to expect.”  


______ _ _

An almost unnoticeable smile sits on top of Keith’s face. “Sounds like you’re experienced.”  


______ _ _

Lance just shrugs. “What can I say? I believe I’m quite the charmer. Everyone wants a piece of _this_.” A smirk forms on his face.  


______ _ _

A laugh bubbles and resurfaces itself upon Keith’s chest. Lance feels like he can melt into a puddle of hearts and on top of his broken one. Keith rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right.”  


______ _ _

_God, if I can just see him smile like that every single day. And… be the reason why._  


______ _ _

Unfortunately, yeah. This is good enough for Lance. Right. It had to be.  


______ _ _

_This is his night, not mine._  


______ _ _

He tries to smile, he really does, but he ends up hesitating and settles on turning away to look for an excuse to avoid his gaze. He sees Keith’s iconic red jacket, dreadfully hurled onto the side of his bed, drooping like a wilted flower. Beside it, a slick black leather jacket with a few zippered pockets with a sleeve sadly folded over where the stomach will be if worn. He ends up picking the leather jacket, because even though the red jacket is Keith’s icon, he still wanted him to look like he’s put effort into his clothing while keeping the essence of Keith’s “style”.  


______ _ _

“Here,” he says, offering it to Keith. “This is who you are, right? Well, at least, I think so. If he’s the right person, he’ll see you for who you really are, and that’s… that’s good enough.”  


______ _ _

Keith allows a chuckle to flee from his system to signal his appreciation. “Thanks, Lance.”  


______ _ _

“Oh, no, don’t thank me yet,” the boy with blue eyes scurries to carry on with the missing puzzle piece. “Your hair kinda gives it away. You look like you just got out of bed. Here,” he finger combs through Keith’s hair. He inches closer—maybe a _bit_ too close—to his friend’s face. He makes the rising lump in his throat drop by swallowing hard, but the pounding of his heart abandons him with the questions of _Am I sweating pinballs, or is it just hot in here? ‘Course it is, he’s right in front of me_ —  


______ _ _

_Focus, Lance. You wouldn’t wanna fuck up his messy mop of hair even more, even though his hair is so soft and it makes you wanna run your hands along his scalp, feeling exactly how fluffy and—_  


______ _ _

He sniffs a whiff of his shampoo, smelling of aloe vera with a hint of green tea. His entire body stiffens like a wooden plank.  


______ _ _

Aloe vera is used to soothe burns, right? He might need that in Keith’s shampoo to smear it over his burning face to at least reduce the swelling.  


______ _ _

He shakes the deliberations off, trying to relocate his gaze somewhere more appropriate. Like—his eyes. No, too creepy. His… eyebrows? Ugh, too close to his alluring purple eyes. How about somewhere lower? Like, how… pink, plump and delicate his lips are.  


______ _ _

Now, fellas, is it gay, or is it _gay_?  


______ _ _

“You okay there?”  


______ _ _

Lance practically jumps at the sound of Keith’s voice, way too close to his face that he feels the vibration of his instrument in the air. He stumbles backwards but catches himself in swift succession. “Yeah! I’m fine,” he says a _little_ too enthusiastically.  


______ _ _

“Are you gonna do my hair or stare at me like there’s icing on my face,” Keith asks, partially deadpanning, partially impatient, and partially… nervous? Lance can’t quite put his finger into it. Too busy calming the storm in his head.  


______ _ _

“Right—right. Sorry ‘bout that.”  


______ _ _

Keith hums succinctly to close the deal.  


______ _ _

After a second of awkwardness hanging in the air, Lance grabs the hair gel he spotted in Keith’s desk and rubs a bit of it between his hands before applying it to smooth over the creature seemingly living atop Keith’s head. He works on two things: one, yes, Keith’s hair, and two, keeping his focus steady and away from Keith’s pretty face. He’s satisfied with it after his hair looks neat enough for him, so he pulls away, intent on not keeping a sensible enough distance from Keith than previous minutes ago.  


______ _ _

“You know,” Lance starts. “I’ve never seen you this prepped for a date before. Why the sudden change in heart?”  


______ _ _

Keith shrugs. “I guess I just wanna impress him.” He sighs lightly. “Or at least look put together, I don’t really know.” He twirls a clump of his hair around his fingers. Cute, Lance thinks.  


______ _ _

_No,_ not _cute_. _Not cute at all._  


______ _ _

Lance hides the fact that he thinks Keith is adorable with an awkward chuckle. “Wow, who are you and what did you do with the cold, stoic, Keith Kogane?”  


______ _ _

“I’m not _that_ cold.”  


______ _ _

Lance rubs a hand on the back of his head, diagonally darting his gaze up towards the ceiling. “Yeah, you kinda are.”  


______ _ _

Keith glares at him. “Look, let’s just get this over with.”  


______ _ _

Lance hums in agreement. He shoves his cold hands into his pocket to warm them up a bit. “You don’t even need all this pampering. You already look good.”  


______ _ _

“You think?”  


______ _ _

“Sure I do.” Lance presses his lips into a thin line, right before fooling himself of the feelings he holds to be true with a half-smile. “Rolo’s a lucky guy.”  


______ _ _

Keith smiles softly. It appears as though his gaze is beyond what he can see in the room. A certain warmth spreads across his cheeks, causing his eyes to curl up a bit like they’re smiling. “Maybe I’m the luckier one.”  


______ _ _

“Well, I guess you guys are both lucky.” He’s not going to lie, Rolo is a pretty good guy. Handsome fella, hella ripped.  


______ _ _

There’s a slight flush of red on Keith’s cheeks. “Thanks.”  


______ _ _

_Damn_. Can’t Keith get more— _attractive_? It’s like there’s not enough words in the English language to describe just how _pretty_ he is—maybe even with Spanish combined.  


______ _ _

“Anyway,” Lance pats an encouraging gesture into Keith’s shoulder with his left hand. “I think you’re all set. Wouldn’t want your date to keep waiting.”  


______ _ _

“Oh, right.”  


______ _ _

Keith walks towards his open bedroom door while straightening his jacket. He stops midway to turn on his heel, to turn towards Lance. “Thanks, Lance.”  


______ _ _

Butterflies fly lively and wildly in Lance’s stomach at the sight of Keith and the sound of his appreciation. “You’re welcome.”  


______ _ _

As the door shuts with a click, Lance is left with a lonely stillness that replaced the sheer joy and happiness and nervousness he felt when Keith’s presence blessed the room. It feels incomplete, the daunting emptiness tugging at his heartstrings. He’s gone through times when he isn’t with Keith, didn’t he? So why is this so hard when it’s a similar situation and context?  


______ _ _

Keith didn’t have a date back then. Keith wasn’t in love back then. Lance still had a chance. Lance could still cling on to the fact that Keith was single, and that he might be the one to morph his status to _Taken_.  


______ _ _

Too bad someone got to him first.  


______ _ _

He should’ve been more courageous. Should’ve been keener on making sure he let his feelings be known. Should’ve be the reason to why Keith dresses himself so nicely. Should’ve been the reason for his smile. But God forbid him and his ability to just _tell_ him because he’s so afraid to ruin their perfectly good relationship of being no more than friends. And, it’s selfish. It really is.  


______ _ _

So if being selfish meant he had Keith, he doesn’t want to be it.  


______ _ _

Not when Keith doesn’t want him back.  


______ _ _

He wipes a hand over his face, soundly cursing at himself. He figures he needs to rest, needs to retreat into the quiet of his room. Play the guitar maybe. Sing his heart out.  


______ _ _

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. As long as he has a healthy way of dealing with his _romantic feelings for his best friend_ , he’ll take it. Maybe it’s too selfish to have someone looking out for his reckless ass and broken heart that he doesn’t want to have any more thoughts that only benefit himself. So, he had concluded in his life that he’ll resort to better ways to cope because he doesn’t want to be too much of a bother—he tries his best, most of the time. Setting himself up for the worst isn’t going to do him or anyone a solid. He knows that.  


______ _ _

He exits Keith’s room, the distinct scent of his deodorant and shampoo and soap sending unwanted shivers down his spine, desired tingling in his heart, but a marred sense of completeness as he nears his room and away from Keith’s.  


______ _ _

Maybe a song can take it away. It always does.  


______ _ _

He grabs his phone without a reason besides out of habit as he enters his room, the familiar interior and feel welcoming him. He spots the guitar in its usual place, in the corner of his room at the foot of his bed. It’s used too frequently to be collecting dust, and Lance happily takes care of it with utmost ease. It was a gift from his mother, a congratulatory one at that after graduating from high school. After his sister, Veronica, taught him basic chords and how to strum, he practically fell in love with it. Soon after, he always begged his mom for one, or even addressed how much he wants it indirectly, and when he finally got it, he cannot stop himself from playing it. He named it “Robin”, because at some point, he felt like he was Batman seeing how inseparable they were. And they still are. It’s become his stress reliever.  


______ _ _

He sure as hell needs it after helping out his best friend (aka, his long-time crush) with his date, to which he nervously chuckles at because it’s a miracle he’s still breathing.  


______ _ _

He sits on the edge of his bed, one side of the guitar’s body resting atop his thigh. He places the ankle of his free leg on the part of his other leg where it stops before it bends. He organizes his fingers firmly on the fretboard, the fingers on his other hand knit closely together for strumming. A short moment passes by as he clears his throat.  


______ _ _

He begins with a series of strums of the same notes, before singing the first lines.  


______ _ _

_“Do you hear me? I’m talking to you_  


______ _ _

_Across the water, across the deep blue_ —  


______ _ _

_Ocean, under the open sky,_  


______ _ _

_Oh my, baby, I’m trying…_ ”  


______ _ _

He stops playing. Stops singing. He sighs, deciding for split second that the song seems… inappropriate for his current situation. Not when the song is stating that they are lucky to be in love with their best friend, as a matter of fact, he is, but his best friend is not in love with him. Bummer. It’s a lovely song, too.  


______ _ _

Moving on. He shakes his head, scolding himself for being such a hopeless romantic. He averts his gaze to the ceiling, trying to tap into his head as to what song can be more appropriate and _appreciated_ by his one-sided pining. Or love. Whatever. He starts strumming. Each string vibrates at the swipe of his fingertips, each note standing out individually. More accurately. He inhales slowly, and sings.  


______ _ _

_“Well, you could kill me right now_  


______ _ _

_With a turn from a kiss,_  


______ _ _

_And a purse of your lips,_  


______ _ _

_I’d be down.”_  


______ _ _

The strings resonate acoustically in a continuous tempo, picking up from where the melody left of for a slight pause before the next stanza.  


______ _ _

_“Well, you could end my last doubt_  


______ _ _

_With a spite in your voice,_  


______ _ _

_A care unworthy of the choice._  


______ _ _

_You’re screamin’ like I’m forcin’ you out.”_  


______ _ _

As the beat picks up, his face repaints itself from a neutral expression to a more pained one, without his knowledge.  


______ _ _

_“And all this time spent on you,_  


______ _ _

_All these lines I wrote you,_  


______ _ _

_How dare they mean nothing at all?”_  


______ _ _

The chorus comes in a flash, and he’s brushing his fingers along the strings while repeatedly beating the guitar’s pickguard with the heel of his palm, feeling and staying with the rhythm as belts the ache pricking his heart, the regret a constant reminder in the back of his head, and the harsh truth the lyrics in the song implies.  


______ _ _

_“We almost touched it_  


______ _ _

_Couldn’t you feel it? _  
__

________ _ _ _ _

_We tasted perfection, _  
__

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

_The closest I’ve ever been_  


__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

_We were as tall as heaven.”_  


__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He stays like this for a minute, that minute multiplying, until it unconsciously sidetracks to a few hours. He doesn’t stop, even when he slips up with a chord, with a series of strumming, his voice cracking, him forgetting the lyrics—he keeps on keeping on. Soon enough, his mind is numb of stinging fantasies that he’s sure will never happen. He knows the reason why.  


__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Keith is enjoying himself. Something that hasn’t happened in a while, because everyone who ever dated him had been busy using his sorry ass for their own personal gain. It had made Keith helpless, afraid to go out with someone again.  


__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

But then Rolo came into the picture. They’re almost… perfect.  


__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

So perfect it brought Lance and his cowardice to the reality that if you don’t make your move soon, someone else will get to it first.  


__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Yeah. He knows. He knows _too damn well_.  


__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

It had been one hell of a breezy afternoon—but Lance couldn’t care less.  


__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Too busy letting the melodies and harmonies and instruments make his words and emotions bearable.  


__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> Woooh, I hope you all enjoyed reading! This is technically an unplanned piece for Pride Month 2020, but since I was ready to pull my hair out if I didn't have a piece up for this special month, I just had to. I had an initial idea, but my brain went elsewhere and landed to finishing this piece
> 
> This is actually part of a series I am currently working on, but since I've written this first than the actual intro of the series, I have set myself up to suffer trying to connect this to the rest of the plot relevant stuff. I'm still figuring out if I should continue the said series, since I'm kind of skeptical of my abilities when it comes to writing lengthy, multiple-parts stories, sooo... *sigh* 
> 
> Regardless, I managed to make a dream of mine come true and that is Lance singing a Make Out Monday song (the one used here is Tall as Heaven) specifically for Keith. Or just Lance singing for Keith, doesn't matter. I hope you all enjoyed reading! Happy Pride, everyone!
> 
> (so this edit: is my dumbass realizing that I headhopped I am so sorry, I’ll work on that)


End file.
